Tryon: Jackie Robinson's big-league lesson for the ages

Published: Sunday, May 26, 2013 at 1:00 a.m.

Last Modified: Friday, May 24, 2013 at 5:00 p.m.

'Papa T, why didn't they let dark-skinned people play in the big leagues?"

We were at a baseball game, at Tropicana Field, yet the question -- from Aidan, my 8-year-old grandson -- seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Excuse me?" I replied, hoping to avoid giving an answer both simple and complicated.

"Why didn't they want Jackie Robinson to play in the major leagues?"

"How do you know about Jackie Robinson?" I asked.

"From the movie -- '42'."

"You've seen the movie?"

"No, they showed some of it on ESPN," he said, referring to advertisements for the film.

"Well, do you want to see the movie?" I said with trepidation, already concerned that the frequent N-bombing in the film would be too intense for a child, even though he, his younger brother and their cohorts are media savvy.

"Yes," Aidan answered matter-of-factly, before showing his age and turning his attention to the vendor hawking cotton candy by our seats.

"OK, we'll see ... if it's appropriate, and if your mom and dad say it's all right ..."

The following Sunday, my wife and I went to preview "42" -- the story of Jackie Robinson's role in breaking the color barrier in baseball --at the Burns Court cinemas in Lakewood Ranch.

The N-word and its derivatives -- including the then-popular Southern hybrid term "nigra" -- were, as anticipated, laced throughout the dialogue of the movie, along with a smattering of other curse words.

But the story, generally delivered with accuracy, was compelling, inspiring and chilling. The film made me laugh and cry, proud and angry.

Most of all, however, I was gratified that -- despite the lingering effects of racism and the perpetual pining for America's good old days -- our nation has progressed far beyond the immoral era of overt racial segregation.

This was a lesson I wanted my first grandson to learn.

So, last Sunday, we headed to the theater to watch "42." During lunch before the movie, I reiterated the warning that some of the characters would call Robinson ugly names, using words that are unacceptable today.

Aidan sat quietly through the whole movie, except to ask two questions:

• "What's the count on Jackie now?" he said, trying to keep track of the balls and strikes when Robinson was up to bat.

• "Is this when he steals home?" referring to Robinson's signature play, featured in the movie ads, in the minors and the majors.

He seemed to enjoy the film, and said so afterward.

Nevertheless, in the theater I recognized that the experience was more meaningful to me than to him. After all, when I was 8 years old growing up in Palmetto, there were white schools and black schools. Our Boys Club was lily white; the black kids had their own place to play, at a youth center literally on the other side of the railroad tracks.

Federal court orders forced the school system to desegregate and, although the Youth Center remains a vital part of the city's African-American culture, the Boys Club long ago opened its doors wide. By the time I reached high school, racial tensions had eased and, in my senior year, our sports teams were not only integrated, teammates had established a sense of brotherhood.

Looking at Aidan, I thought that my experience and Robinson's are as foreign to him and his brother, Kaleb, as rotary telephones and black-and-white televisions.

The boys will encounter racism and other forms of discrimination during their lives, of course, but on far different terms and with less intensity. At least that is my hope.

Someday, we'll have a conversation about how Robinson wasn't the sole pioneer in the desegregation of America. We'll discuss why he was the one given an opportunity to play in 1946 for the Montreal Royals, an AAA team, and then the big-league Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947.

Maybe we'll talk about why Robinson, as a second lieutenant in the Army, was court-martialed for protesting discrimination (he later was discharged honorably.)

Perhaps we'll discuss how, despite the insults and indignities that Robinson endured, he hardly suffered the worst treatment of black Americans, including those who led the civil rights movement during its peak in the 1960s.

But, for now, we'll talk about how Robinson was named National League Rookie of the Year in 1947, after hitting .297 and stealing 29 bases to lead the NL. We'll discuss how he hit .311 lifetime and helped Brooklyn beat the mean ol' Yankees -- our phrase -- in the 1955 World Series. And, if I figure out how to explain WAR (Wins Above Replacement), I'll mention how Robinson led the league in that statistic twice -- and was the most irreplaceable player in the history of the game.

The next time Major League Baseball celebrates Robinson's legacy, with all players wearing 42, I suspect someone else will try to wear that number.

"Papa T, if I have a game on Jackie Robinson Day next year, I'm going to cut out his number and tape it over my jersey," Aidan told me -- demonstrating that, while he doesn't understand the past, he understood the message of 42.

<p>'Papa T, why didn't they let dark-skinned people play in the big leagues?"</p><p>We were at a baseball game, at Tropicana Field, yet the question -- from Aidan, my 8-year-old grandson -- seemed to come out of nowhere.</p><p>"Excuse me?" I replied, hoping to avoid giving an answer both simple and complicated.</p><p>"Why didn't they want Jackie Robinson to play in the major leagues?"</p><p>"How do you know about Jackie Robinson?" I asked.</p><p>"From the movie -- '42'."</p><p>"You've seen the movie?"</p><p>"No, they showed some of it on ESPN," he said, referring to advertisements for the film.</p><p>"Well, do you want to see the movie?" I said with trepidation, already concerned that the frequent N-bombing in the film would be too intense for a child, even though he, his younger brother and their cohorts are media savvy.</p><p>"Yes," Aidan answered matter-of-factly, before showing his age and turning his attention to the vendor hawking cotton candy by our seats.</p><p>"OK, we'll see ... if it's appropriate, and if your mom and dad say it's all right ..."</p><p>The following Sunday, my wife and I went to preview "42" -- the story of Jackie Robinson's role in breaking the color barrier in baseball --at the Burns Court cinemas in Lakewood Ranch.</p><p>The N-word and its derivatives -- including the then-popular Southern hybrid term "nigra" -- were, as anticipated, laced throughout the dialogue of the movie, along with a smattering of other curse words.</p><p>But the story, generally delivered with accuracy, was compelling, inspiring and chilling. The film made me laugh and cry, proud and angry.</p><p>Most of all, however, I was gratified that -- despite the lingering effects of racism and the perpetual pining for America's good old days -- our nation has progressed far beyond the immoral era of overt racial segregation.</p><p>This was a lesson I wanted my first grandson to learn.</p><p>So, last Sunday, we headed to the theater to watch "42." During lunch before the movie, I reiterated the warning that some of the characters would call Robinson ugly names, using words that are unacceptable today.</p><p>Aidan sat quietly through the whole movie, except to ask two questions:</p><p>• "What's the count on Jackie now?" he said, trying to keep track of the balls and strikes when Robinson was up to bat.</p><p>• "Is this when he steals home?" referring to Robinson's signature play, featured in the movie ads, in the minors and the majors.</p><p>He seemed to enjoy the film, and said so afterward.</p><p>Nevertheless, in the theater I recognized that the experience was more meaningful to me than to him. After all, when I was 8 years old growing up in Palmetto, there were white schools and black schools. Our Boys Club was lily white; the black kids had their own place to play, at a youth center literally on the other side of the railroad tracks.</p><p>Federal court orders forced the school system to desegregate and, although the Youth Center remains a vital part of the city's African-American culture, the Boys Club long ago opened its doors wide. By the time I reached high school, racial tensions had eased and, in my senior year, our sports teams were not only integrated, teammates had established a sense of brotherhood.</p><p>Looking at Aidan, I thought that my experience and Robinson's are as foreign to him and his brother, Kaleb, as rotary telephones and black-and-white televisions.</p><p>The boys will encounter racism and other forms of discrimination during their lives, of course, but on far different terms and with less intensity. At least that is my hope.</p><p>Someday, we'll have a conversation about how Robinson wasn't the sole pioneer in the desegregation of America. We'll discuss why he was the one given an opportunity to play in 1946 for the Montreal Royals, an AAA team, and then the big-league Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947.</p><p>Maybe we'll talk about why Robinson, as a second lieutenant in the Army, was court-martialed for protesting discrimination (he later was discharged honorably.)</p><p>Perhaps we'll discuss how, despite the insults and indignities that Robinson endured, he hardly suffered the worst treatment of black Americans, including those who led the civil rights movement during its peak in the 1960s.</p><p>But, for now, we'll talk about how Robinson was named National League Rookie of the Year in 1947, after hitting .297 and stealing 29 bases to lead the NL. We'll discuss how he hit .311 lifetime and helped Brooklyn beat the mean ol' Yankees -- our phrase -- in the 1955 World Series. And, if I figure out how to explain WAR (Wins Above Replacement), I'll mention how Robinson led the league in that statistic twice -- and was the most irreplaceable player in the history of the game.</p><p>The next time Major League Baseball celebrates Robinson's legacy, with all players wearing 42, I suspect someone else will try to wear that number.</p><p>"Papa T, if I have a game on Jackie Robinson Day next year, I'm going to cut out his number and tape it over my jersey," Aidan told me -- demonstrating that, while he doesn't understand the past, he understood the message of 42.</p><p><hr /></p><p><i>Tom Tryon, aka Papa T, is opinion editor. Tom.Tryon@heraldtribune.com.</i></p>